forty-two months

Dear Lu,

The older you get the more I experience you through your own words. You rarely stop talking, to me, to Daddy, to yourself. You chastise me if I interrupt a story you're telling, but sometimes your imagining is so real that I think you're talking to me, and I respond.

You really love me. You crowd me with your body and you crowd me with your voice, and sometimes I look forward to going to the basement to work so I can have a chance to breathe. But then you'll be playing by yourself, pretending elaborate and fanciful things, and instead of luxuriating in a couch with only me on it, I spend my free time eavesdropping on you, sneaking kisses on the top of your head.

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We visited Erin in the hospital after she had her babies and you were so sweet, like I had coached you for hours. You said: Erin, your brand new babies are so cute! Erin, thank you for letting us see your babies! Then, while I was holding a twin: Erin, can I snuggle with you?

You let the grownups talk, you made Erin a crown of pipe cleaners and beads. You held a baby with delight, and when I said, Isn't Ramona lucky? She has two little brothers!, you said yes, and then quickly: Then I'm not lucky! I only have one brother.

You're quick to the draw.

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In Virginia at Gramme's house we were looking at a small photo book I made for her not long after you were born, all about you. You flipped to the picture of you and me and Nana and my Grandma, and said, Is this your Grandma that died? I said yes.

You looked at the picture, then your eyes got wide. But, doesn't Nana miss her mommy?

Yes, I said. She does.

Then, eyes wider still: But, are you going to die?

Well, everybody dies, but it probably won't be for a long time . . . 

But I don't want you to die!

Come sit with me, do you want to snuggle?

I don't want to read this book anymore.

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Before Christmas Nana came over to watch Oscar and Daddy and I took you to your first ever stage play: Peter Pan. You've been loving the Peter Pan story for awhile so when I saw that it was playing at a local children's theater I couldn't resist. I got us three seats right at the very front of the stage, not sure that you would tolerate watching from behind someone else's head.

You were rapt for the entire 90-minute performance. We had talked about staying quiet during the show, and for large swaths of time you had your fist over your mouth, ready to catch any excitement that might bubble up into sound. Your dad and I were rapt as well; sometimes we forsook the stage to watch your face. I'm pretty sure at various times we both teared up.

When intermission came you couldn't wait for the show to start again.

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You're very sensitive these days about being laughed at. We sometimes have misunderstandings because you make us laugh a lot, but mostly because you are surprising and delightful and silly, and not because we think you're ridiculous. But I remember feeling exactly that same way when I was a little: I knew enough of what was going on to participate in adult conversations, but was always hypersensitive that I was doing it wrong.

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There is a lot of playacting in our house: there's the story where we pretend you just came out of my belly; there's one where we pretend that I think you are just a sleeping bug but really you are a fairy with wings; there's one where we are two girls going camping, and we start out in a boat. We are often bears hiding in a cave, getting ready for winter; or people sleeping while the T-Rex steals our treasure box and then you have to go roar at him and rescue it.

There's Cinderella where you are my fairy godmother and you wrap me in beautiful dresses, and there are the two that we play most often, both from Peter Pan: you as Wendy, noticing strange leaves by your window, and me as Mrs. Darling; and me as Wendy, you as Tinkerbell, Oscar as Michael and Daddy as Peter Pan.

In the version where you are Tinkerbell you guide the story and feed Daddy all his lines. You change the parts that you don't like; for example, in your version Tink and Wendy are always fast friends, and Peter never gets mad at Tinkerbell. Also, Tinkerbell just dumps the poison out to protect Peter instead of drinking it, which really makes more sense anyway.

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Sometimes you mix an element of Rumplestiltskin into the Tinkerbell stories, and Wendy has to guess your name:

I'll give you a hint: It starts with a Bell, and a Tink.

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You love language. You love to play with words, and poems, and nonsense rhymes. I don't normally picture your future, I'm so content to just watch it unfold, but last week I imagined you older and in a poetry slam, and you were totally killing it.

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Wee winnie dolphin
The snow is like a coffin

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When I look at you I recognize myself from old home videos, the way your hair goes all the way down your back, the way you throw your head back and laugh when you make a joke. The way you make up songs at the dinner table. Even in your inflection, in the way you put sentences together, I hear echoes of my own 4-year old self. When you tell me I only give Oscar love, I know exactly how you feel; I remember standing in the bathtub with my arms crossed, jealous of my mom playing with my brother, telling her she never gives me a turn, and feeling that to be the absolute truth.

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You love to put on records and dance circles around the rug with me, chasing and being chased.

Before I had any kids a woman I used to work with said she imagined my home life like this: Your dad and I, listening to records and dancing around and being silly in the living room. That wasn't far off, and on the best days, it still isn't.

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Sometimes you want my focused attention with such urgency that you say Mom! Mom! Mommy! again and again, even though we're in the same small space. I look at you, exasperated, I say, What, Love?

You are caught; you have my attention, but nothing to say. You pause.

Mama? I love ya.

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My favorite part of most days is the time we spend on the couch, after Oscar goes to bed and before you do. You choose a book or books and we snuggle up and read. You ask me questions about the story, about words in the story, about which words on the page are the words I am reading. We play games with rhyming, games with synonyms. We talk about the story. At Christmastime we were reading A Christmas Carol about Tiny Tim, and you said, That reminds me of another boy with a bad life, and you went to the bookshelf and pulled out Oliver Twist. I love these conversations with you.

While we read, you wiggle your body, too hot, too cold, trying to get comfortable, balancing your bottom on my knee, your back on my thigh, trying to get closer and closer to me, scooting up so your cheek is pressed against mine.

Sometimes I hug you so close and you tell me to hug less tightly, because you are too hot.

So living with you at three and a half is like this: Sometimes I am nearly crushed, and sometimes I can't squeeze you tight enough.

I love ya, Lu.

Love,
Mama